


Self-deletion

by laurenwrites



Series: Artistic Musings [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurenwrites/pseuds/laurenwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras examines some of Grantaire's work and notices something missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self-deletion

‘Grantaire?’ Enjolras called out as he used his hand to bang on the door, surveying his surroundings with an aura of distaste. The walls of the dreary apartment block held a vague scent of damp, spores of mould clinging to the darker corners.  Enjolras suddenly realised why Joly hadn’t been called upon to complete this errand. In the absence of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who were both stuck in late-morning classes, the task of checking in on Grantaire had been thrust upon himself. The night before, the man in question had been more intoxicated than usual, almost worryingly so. He knocked again, louder. Enjolras glanced at his watch, irritation slowly building up inside him as he waited.

‘Grantaire, I _swear_ if you don’t open this door in the next five -’ He stopped in his speech as his hand absentmindedly clasped around the door handle in frustration. _It was open._ Enjolras frowned as he turned the handle and opened the door, Grantaire should really be more careful in a neighbourhood such as this. Making a mental note to reprimand his obvious carelessness, he closed the door behind him.

He was about to call out Grantaire’s name, but being curious at heart, Enjolras was suddenly too busy examining everything in the vicinity. Precariously high piles of books littered almost every surface, canvases and paper strewn in between. There wasn’t a single wall left clean – paint spatters of every colour littered the once pure and clean beige walls. On entering, Enjolras had been decidedly surprised about the darkness of the room, the window seemed almost redundant.

The living room was mostly empty aside from a large, and disturbingly battered, wooden desk. On approach Enjolras noted the multiple sketchbooks piled against the murky cup of paint-water. One was open, taking up the majority of the space. As he looked at the page he recognised an expression he’d seen many time before, an expression he’d seen in his own mirror. He touched the page, examining the drawing with both his mind and his hands. It was competently drawn, although perhaps a little exaggerated. For one, Enjolras highly doubted anyone – _much less himself_ – could possibly ever look like _this_ in real life. Grantaire had highlighted his hair with a white pen; it resembled a strangely illuminated halo. The fictional version of himself looked almost inhuman, the frown on his face resembling that of an angry God.

Enjolras wondered if this was how Grantaire truly saw him, although it seemed highly unlikely. _This was obviously meant as some kind of elaborate joke._ He took the paper in his hands, turning the page.

The next few pages held more drawings of Enjolras – smiling, laughing, brow furrowed in concentration – every expression in-between.  They were obviously flattering, perhaps more so than the first. Confusion wrapped around his consciousness as he continued flipping through the pages. _Was this really how Grantaire saw him?_

Pushing that particular thought away, Enjolras turned the next page; more than a little relieved when his own face wasn't the one staring back at him. This piece was a highly accurate representation of Eponine, Combeferre and Cosette. The two 'ladies' were kissing either side of his face; Enjolras silently laughed at the slightly exaggerated blush firmly planted on Combeferre's cheeks. This event had been the result of one of Grantaire's decidedly ridiculous drinking games. 

The next side held a portrait of Jehan and Courfeyrac; they were bent over a book smiling into the pages. Enjolras found himself smiling in reaction, noting the perfectly captured version of the poet’s gentle nature, mixed in with the dynamic or feasibly chaotic influence of Courf. He wasn’t quite sure how these things could even be apparent from a simple drawing, and yet they were.

Shaking his head in disbelief, he continued.

In his exploration of the book, Enjolras came to a page containing a group picture. Combeferre and himself were wrapped in an awkward group-hug, Courf and Jehan the initiators. He remembered this moment clearly; perhaps because he’d been so annoyed. Eponine and Bahorel were pulling silly faces as Feuilly, Bossuet and Marius flanked the outside of the strange embrace. Musichetta and Cosette were in the centre, arms wrapped firmly around Combefere and himself. Despire not being able to see their faces, it was clear, fighteningly so, by their posture. Enjolras snorted, remembering the tangle of limbs they’d been after the eventual collapse of their little cluster. Although a modest sketch, He could make out the care taken in capturing each and every person as an individual. Enjolras found himself lingering on this page longer than the others, examining detail after detail.

_If he had to choose, this would be his favourite._

However, if he wasn’t mistaken, Grantaire himself had been very much a part of this particular memory. He wondered why the artist had neglected to draw himself, if it had been intentional or if he’d simply forgotten. Enjolras disregarded the latter; the attention to detail was far too clear for any lapse of memory. Frowning, he held the page between his hands.

The clearing of a throat behind him caused him to jump. He slowly turned, releasing his grip on the sketchbook.

‘Don’t look so guilty – anyone would think you were snooping.’ Grantaire rubbed his eyes, his voice hoarse from sleep. He raised an eyebrow at his unexpected visitor as he stretched; arms raised in the air. Enjolras looked away as the other man’s shirt rode up slightly, revealing his abdomen. ‘Like what you see?’

Enjolras stumbled, eyes widening as he looked back to Grantaire.

‘ _What?_ ’

‘The drawings, genius.’ Grantaire tipped his head, grinning at the obvious second meaning and the slight flush currently fixed on Enjolras’ stony face. He gestured to the open sketchbook, walking over to the desk and by association, Enjolras. ‘Not exactly my best work, but then again I wasn’t planning on a private exhibition for Apollo himself.’

‘I’m hardly an art critic, Grantaire.’ Enjolras ran a hand through his hair absentmindedly, taking in the expression of the other man. He didn’t look angry in the slightest, intrigued perhaps. He shrugged, letting out a small huff as he closed the open book.

‘Oh come on Enjolras, you have an opinion on _everything._ ’

But instead of answering the prompt, he put forward a question; one that he couldn’t answer himself.

‘You never draw yourself, why?’ Grantaire’s eyes enlarged briefly, disarmed by the unexpected inquiry. _Or so it seemed._ Enjolras wasn’t particularly good at reading expressions, even less so when it came to Grantaire. ‘May I?’

He gestured to the now closed book, allowing time for the other man to protest if he so desired. When he didn’t, Enjolras flipped to the group portrait he’d been admiring before the interruption. He pointed to the empty space above his head and Combeferre’s; the space that should have been filled by Grantaire himself.  

‘Wait, you remember that?’ Looking up, he realised Grantaire was staring in surprise. He nodded in response but didn’t speak as he waited for the answer to his question. Grantaire sighed and pursed his lips slightly, an expression of thought. ‘I’m boring. Why would I waste my time on something so dull? That would be incredibly stupid, if I do say so myself.’

Enjolras’ brow furrowed, not quite believing the answer. Grantaire was definitely holding something back, but it really wasn’t his place to pry. He was decidedly curious as he tried to read the thoughts of the artist through his face. Grantaire was a sceptic, an alcoholic and he practically breathed sarcasm. He always seemed jovial enough but was the self-deletion perhaps another form of his apparent disregard for his own existence?  

‘I like this one best, but it’s also incomplete.’ Enjolras picked up the book, handing it to Grantaire as he walked toward the door; after all he’d performed the task of ‘checking in’ – the man in question was decidedly fine. ‘You should finish it.’

‘Hate to burst your bubble, but it’s already finished.’ Grantaire raised one eyebrow, one hand curled around the doorframe, the other around the book, as he showed Enjolras out.

‘No it’s not, it’s far too optimistic. Something a little more _cynical_ is needed, I believe.’ Enjolras looked Grantaire straight in the eyes, watching as the message clicked inside his brain. ‘I’d like to see the completed version; it’s really quite remarkable. _So far, that is._ ’

Grantaire grinned, looking down at the floor before raising his head to meet his visitor in the eye.

‘Your wish is my command.’ He feigned a bow as Enjolras rolled his eyes, shouting a _‘goodbye’_ over his shoulder as he left the building.

As he walked, Enjolras found himself hoping that he’d actually get to see the finished article.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a prompt from ozelbolge on Tumblr.


End file.
